The voice in my head is a sculptur,
chipping away at me,
creating a perfect statue,
that is not me.
I do not recognize myself,
and I am failing,
failing to see that I am slowly fading away.
The mirror being the worst critic,
showing every crooked hair,
bumps,
folds,
scars and all imperfections of my body.
I am pinching and pulling at my skin,
to make sure that I am awake.
With those sad sunken eyes,
flappy arms and stomach rolls,
I ask myself,
what has happened to me?
My eyes have become sadder,
a smile harder to put up,
and my own reflection is a stranger to me.
Have I hit rock bottom
or is it just another obstacle?
YOU ARE READING
It's not all black and white
PoetryA personal collection of all my poems. >TW< This is my first book so if you enjoyed reading my poems feel free to vote and leave a comment. ❤️ Lots of love
